JACKSON KAYWOOD
Gretna Green, the surprise hit of 2012, is projected to make big waves at the Oscars this year. The stars, Jackson Kaywood and Olivia Tyler, are assumed to be nominated for their powerful performances as Antony and Claire, a soldier and his wife who survive the horrific train wreck. The $400 million gross all but shoes this epic film into a Best Picture spot. All eyes will be on the nominations presented this Tuesday morning.
-Brody James, Entertainment Weekly, January 2014
I’ve never been so goddamn nervous in my life.
There’s “shit, there’s a spider in my room” scared, there’s “oh my god the plane’s going to crash” fear and then there’s “am I going to be nominated?” terror. Four cups of coffee, two Zolofts and a night without sleep has lulled me into a frantic calm that pacing around my bedroom has not solved.
The room is scrubbed clean. Two months of freedom after a year of near-constant work will inspire that in even the laziest of men. I sent Abigail out of the room an hour ago to make sure everything was ready to go. There is no way I can step in the living room until the last minute.
Our bed still has the same comforters from my old apartment and our only light source is from her mom’s house. She thinks it’s quaint and cute but I still can’t believe this is where we live. Our neighbors are loud, our furniture is older than an average Girl Scout and it just proves that I’m not where I’m supposed to be. It’s a constant reminder of how far I slipped and I how I’ve taken Abigail down with me.
“It’s time!” she screams from the living room.
I just want to fall back asleep and not have to sit through the endless amount of chatter. For the last month all I’ve done is read the movie blogs and they all say that it’s a sure-bet for the movie. Gretna is a lock for Best Picture and they say the nominations should trickle on down. Vegas has solid odds on me beating Ed Harris for the fifth slot but Abigail, of all people, has been trying to keep me from celebrating.
“Hurry up!”
I make sure my hair looks okay and my outfit doesn’t seem too pathetic as I walk out.
She has the TV on so loud that I can hear every syllable from George Stephanopoulos as he describes, in great detail, the bare room where the nominations are to be announced.
“...on the screen behind the presenters. And what a treat, we have former Oscar host, Billy Crystal, on the phone with us. Good morning Billy!”
I shut it all out. I step into the living room and make sure to look all around. This is my “before” shot. This room, this pathetic little thing, will be gone after today. With a nomination under my belt, offers will pile up at my door. We’ll be in a sprawling home by the time the ceremony rolls around.
She pats the seat next to her on the couch and lifts the blanket for me to crawl under. “The camera’s up there.”
“Is it recording now?”
She nods. “I wanted to make sure that I didn’t miss anything.”
It was my agent, Ronny’s, idea. After I get nominated I can sell the video to Entertainment Tonight for five figures and it will go viral.
Abigail places her hand on my leg. “You’re shaking,” she says with concern.
“I’m fine,” I say. “Just nerves.”
She rubs her thumb against the top of my hand. “You earned this.”
I grip her hand and hold it in mine. “I hope they agree.”
Abigail leans over and kisses my neck. “They will.”
The news camera switches from its one-shot of abandoned microphones to an aerial view of the sea of photographers and reporters that fills the little press room. There is a round of applause as the presenters walk onstage.
“Aw, Natalie Pete. I love her!” Abigail says as the starlet smooths down her hair and smiles for the cameras. She is accompanied by the recently cast Superman, Bryan Garcia, who stands stiffly at her side.
“...and here we go,” the Good Morning America announcer says as they turn over coverage. I squeeze her hand even tighter. I’ve watched the nominations every year since I was thirteen but this time I can barely hear it over the sound of my heart pounding in my ears.
“And the nominees for Best Song.”
Abigail bounces in her seat as Natalie and Bryan rattle off the nominees and Gretna Green’s gets its first nomination in the form of Bette Middler’s theme. It is a great start.
I can see Abigail standing on the Oscar red carpet in a little black dress that shows her body off. She’ll have the money to get her hair done and she’ll insist on getting it swept up like Lauren Bacall. We’ll stand there in front of all those cameras and I’ll pull her in tight and smell that floral perfume she always wears. But, most of all, the reporters will finally shout out something besides “how’s your arm?” or “are you okay?” They’ll finally ask real questions.
Ten minutes in and Gretna Green has been nominated in every category from song to cinematography to makeup. My brother from the film and the woman who plays my mother both get supporting noms. It looks like a sweep.
“And the nominations for Best Actor.”
I grab her entire hand and shut my eyes. I don’t want to watch. I want to experience it fully.
Bryan Garcia read off the names in quick succession.
“Russell Crowe, The Aristocrat.”
That’s okay. He was a lock.
“James Franco, Alaska.”
He has been the wildcard artsy choice, but it isn’t a surprise.
“Ed Harris, a.a. Milne.”
Shit. Shit, shit, shit.
“William H. Macy, Star Cross.”
“M”.
They went from “H” to “M”.
I can’t even hear the rest of the words. My grip on Abigail slips away and I pull my hand back. My chest aches as I take my first real breath in ten minutes. The anxiety is gone but it is replaced by something much worse.
“Oh Jackson,” Abigail says so quietly I can barely hear her.
An actor’s life if full of disappointment. I shouldn’t have been surprised.
I jump up from the couch and look at the shithole I am in. It seems like it has aged ten years in the last five minutes. I walk barefoot to the kitchen and shuffle to the refrigerator. Abigail gets up and follows behind me. She frantically reassures me that it will all be okay. All I want is to numb the pain that has begun to expand in my chest until I can explode at someone who could do something about it.
Drinking vodka straight out of the bottle at 5:30 in the morning is an acquired skill. It has taken me ten years of desperation to develop such a talent and, somedays, it was the only thing that got me through the day. Those times were hard. Today is much worse.
“Do you want me to make you something to eat?” Abigail’s reassuring voice isn’t what I need but it does make me feel a tiny bit better. She is the only thing in my life that never changes and never lets me down. I stole her from a little town near Nashville and trapped her in our cave in the city. She rarely goes out and she doesn’t have any friends that I know about. She’s my little cheerleader, always there when I need some encouragement after a long shoot or a nasty review.
I grab the back of her head and rest her head on my chest. She wraps her arms around my waist and pulls me in tight. “I’m so sorry,” she says. Her hair smells like cherry and vanilla and is so soft against my cheek.
“I just need to go out. I’ll be fine, I just need to be out and clear my head.”
She nods and squeezes me again. “I’ll be here. I can stay home from work.”
“No,” I say, “don’t do that. I’m okay, I really am.”
As Abigail pulls away from me, I can see her eyes are red and puffy. I want to be the kind of boyfriend who will wipe away a tear from his girl’s cheek and tell her that she should smile her beautiful smile. There’s something about real tears that makes me feel utterly helpless to make them stop.
Abigail takes the bottle of vodka off the counter and puts it back in the refrigerator. Her robe has come undone and reveals the hint of a silky tank top and fleece pajama pants underneath. “You’d tell me if you feel like...you know...”
We started dating three months before I went to rehab. She was there for the rock bottom and stayed with me through it all. She was there for the worst and never quite got over it. I know she sees me as the same ticking time bomb, always ready to explode at any moment.
“Of course,” I say. “But it won’t. I’m okay.”
Dread and anxiety creep up like acid in my throat. We both know I’m lying but I all I can think is: Leave, just leave.
“M”.
They went from “H” to “M”.
I can’t even hear the rest of the words. My grip on Abigail slips away and I pull my hand back. My chest aches as I take my first real breath in ten minutes. The anxiety is gone but it is replaced by something much worse.
“Oh Jackson,” Abigail says so quietly I can barely hear her.
An actor’s life if full of disappointment. I shouldn’t have been surprised.
I jump up from the couch and look at the shithole I am in. It seems like it has aged ten years in the last five minutes. I walk barefoot to the kitchen and shuffle to the refrigerator. Abigail gets up and follows behind me. She frantically reassures me that it will all be okay. All I want is to numb the pain that has begun to expand in my chest until I can explode at someone who could do something about it.
Drinking vodka straight out of the bottle at 5:30 in the morning is an acquired skill. It has taken me ten years of desperation to develop such a talent and, somedays, it was the only thing that got me through the day. Those times were hard. Today is much worse.
“Do you want me to make you something to eat?” Abigail’s reassuring voice isn’t what I need but it does make me feel a tiny bit better. She is the only thing in my life that never changes and never lets me down. I stole her from a little town near Nashville and trapped her in our cave in the city. She rarely goes out and she doesn’t have any friends that I know about. She’s my little cheerleader, always there when I need some encouragement after a long shoot or a nasty review.
I grab the back of her head and rest her head on my chest. She wraps her arms around my waist and pulls me in tight. “I’m so sorry,” she says. Her hair smells like cherry and vanilla and is so soft against my cheek.
“I just need to go out. I’ll be fine, I just need to be out and clear my head.”
She nods and squeezes me again. “I’ll be here. I can stay home from work.”
“No,” I say, “don’t do that. I’m okay, I really am.”
As Abigail pulls away from me, I can see her eyes are red and puffy. I want to be the kind of boyfriend who will wipe away a tear from his girl’s cheek and tell her that she should smile her beautiful smile. There’s something about real tears that makes me feel utterly helpless to make them stop.
Abigail takes the bottle of vodka off the counter and puts it back in the refrigerator. Her robe has come undone and reveals the hint of a silky tank top and fleece pajama pants underneath. “You’d tell me if you feel like...you know...”
We started dating three months before I went to rehab. She was there for the rock bottom and stayed with me through it all. She was there for the worst and never quite got over it. I know she sees me as the same ticking time bomb, always ready to explode at any moment.
“Of course,” I say. “But it won’t. I’m okay.”
Dread and anxiety creep up like acid in my throat. We both know I’m lying but I all I can think is: Leave, just leave.
No comments:
Post a Comment